Repenting of my repentance

I am a mom of three boys. I know this to be true: Clothes get dirty. We are hopelessly attracted to dirt and puddles, chocolate and jam. We spill milk; we get bloody noses. From morning to night, I take off, I wash, I put on. Repeat. The laundry basket is never empty.

The fullness of the laundry basket reminds me of the fullness of grace (and how I should not procrastinate). The mundane task of changing and washing points me to the ceaseless and necessary work of repentance.

Christ will one day clothe his Bride with fine linen, bright and pure (Revelation 19:8). On this side of eternity, however, my linen is never white. Even my tiniest sacrifices, moments of selflessness, are drenched with selfish and prideful thoughts. In the words of the Puritans, “my best prayers are stained with sin; my penitential tears are so much impurity… I need to repent of my repentance; I need my tears to be washed” (The Valley of Vision, 136-137).

When I lack the words to pray, I lean heavily on the words of men and women who walked before me. I return to this prayer again and again. Written during a screen-less time, the prayers of the Puritans are steeped in word pictures. This one is soaked in the imagery of rags and robes, reminding me that Christ is my best robe, my perfect covering.



O God of Grace,
You have imputed my sin to my substitute,
and have imputed his righteousness to my soul,
clothing me with a bridegroom's robe,
decking me with jewels of holiness.

But in my Christian walk I am still in rags;
my best prayers are stained with sin;
my penitential tears are so much impurity;
my confessions of wrong are so many aggravations of sin;
my receiving the Spirit is tinctured with selfishness.

I need to repent of my repentance;
I need my tears to be washed;
I have no robe to bring to cover my sins,
no loom to weave my own righteousness;
I am always standing clothed in filthy garments,
and by grace am always receiving change of raiment,
for you always justify the ungodly;
I am always going into the far country,
and always returning home as a prodigal,
always saying, "Father, forgive me,"
and you are always bringing forth the best robe.

Every morning let me wear it,
every evening return in it,
go out to the day's work in it,
be married in it,
be wound in death in it,
stand before the great white throne in it,
enter heaven in it shining as the sun.
Grant me never to lose sight of the exceeding sinfulness of sin,
the exceeding righteousness of salvation,
the exceeding glory of Christ,
the exceeding beauty of holiness,
the exceeding wonder of grace.

The Valley of Vision, 136-137.

Sorrowful, yet always rejoicing

My dear friend Esther left this comment in my previous post on joy. She gave me permission to answer her here.

Irene, does your hair have highlights in it?

What about the mourners, who weep, but not without hope, as they know that a day of peace is coming? Is there not something to be said for comfort and stillness, that comes from hope in truth, even when the exterior circumstances remain in shambles?

I do find the joy/happiness distinction rather unhelpful. because both have to be inworked and outworked, but the joy/grief dichotomy is false... right? I think that's what people who say happiness [not equal] joy are getting at.

Is singing in the dark also joy? I guess I am asking if "waiting for joy" is the same as hope.

Dear Esther,

Your questions keep me awake at night. No wait, that's Khesed's job. I don't know all the answers. But here is a response to your (much appreciated) thoughts.

No, I don't have highlights in my hair. Though that would be so cool.

Honestly, I am not sure why people often make a distinction between happiness and joy. My attempt to understand the two together was mainly prompted by the war in my soul to rejoice.

I am a very emotional person. My facial expressions, the tone of my voice, my attitude are very influenced by my emotions. Because I am not my own, my feelings always affect those around me. Not only do I live before God, but I live before my husband and my children.

Therefore, I must learn to take the reins over my feelings. I want to know how to be emotional well. I want to rejoice well. Lament well. Laugh well. Weep well. Hope well. Fear well. Desire well. Hate well. Be compassionate well. Be zealous well. Be thankful well. Above all, the Lord has commanded us to love well.

Being emotional is not necessarily wrong. Scripture is full of expressions from highly emotional people. I find myself in good company, especially in Old Testament poetry. Jonathan Edwards described a "hard heart" as an "unaffected heart." The opposite of love, he said, is not hate—but indifference. "From love arises hatred of those things which are contrary to what we love." I don't want to have a "hard heart," but my heart needs to be moved by the right things.

Loving well means loving the right object. The phrases "I am happy" or "I am sad" need not imply an object of emotion. But the phrase "I love" raises the question "toward what or whom?" According to Augustine and Edwards, there are only two kinds of love: Love that drives people toward the City of Man and love that propels others to the City of God.

Weeping is not a sin; Jesus wept. Sorrow is not a sin; he is the Man of Sorrows. My sin lies in the reason for my misery, for I am often sad over stupid, worthless, fleeting stuffs. Being "happy" is not necessary shallow or less spiritual than being "joyful" (hence my long rant on how there is no distinction between happiness and joy). The question is upon what or whom do I place my hope for happiness?

So, I would say yes, Esther. Joy vs. grief dichotomy is false. The war within my soul is not between happiness or sorrow. It is a battle between two loves — my love for the world and my Lord's command to love him above all else.

You asked me whether waiting for joy is the same as hope. I would say yes, but—joy is not the object of my hope. I wait upon the Lord, for joy. My hope lies not in how circumstances might get better tomorrow; my hope lies in what the Lord has already fulfilled — on the old rugged cross. Or, to paraphrase another good friend, I can rejoice today not because of the promises this day holds; but because of the promises that day fulfilled.

Grace wins.

Writing this prompted me to think of two of my favorite passages in Scripture, Habakkuk 3 and Psalm 137 (the psalm after which this blog is named). They never fail to give me strength. I read the words of the psalmist during the worst parts of all three labors.

I read them because they are the fighting words of those who were sorrowful, yet always rejoicing. I read them because they are prayers. In the midst of their shambles, they spoke to God; they spoke of God. They prayed to Yahweh — the object of their faith, hope, and love.

These two men in the following videos embody a sorrow that rejoices so well.

I have been greatly helped by Richard Wurmbrand (1909-2001) over the years when I forget to pray for our brothers and sisters imprisoned for Christ. Here, he speaks about how he spent three years in solitary confinement with Christ.



Recently, I learned about John Barros, a man who saved 1,000 babies. With his broken body, he stands for the Gospel nine hours a day, six days a week, for the past three years — in front of an abortion clinic. He is a man who fears no man, and no pregnant woman.

Waiting for joy

Rejoice in the Lord always,
again I will say, rejoice.

These days, I've been learning to pick up my sword (and boy, is it heavy), fighting to rejoice.

People like to make a distinction between happiness and joy. They claim that happiness is all about the exterior, superficial and fleeting, whereas joy comes from deep within, and thus somehow more spiritual, superior, and forever. Or something like that.

I am not convinced.

First, I see no such distinction in the Bible. I see no "inner joy" in Scripture. Joy shouts, and sings, and it's loud. That sounds a lot like happiness to me.

Second, I don't know how joy and happiness would look any different in the eyes of my children. When mommy is happy, she is joyful. When mommy is joyful, she is happy. And when she is not, well, she's not.

I know I am not required  to be (and I don't want to be) a chirpy, upbeat, sugary-sweet-optimist kind of a mother. But I do want to be gentle, cheerful, compassionate, patient, and kind. And it's really hard to be these things when I am not joyful.

So, how am I to rejoice—always, in my soul and with my lips—even when I don't feel like it?

I want to fight, so badly, but I don't know my weapons. Sometimes, I don't even know my enemies. I am desperate to find some answers. So, I've been scouring the Scripture for passages on joy, rejoicing, happiness — what it looks like, when it happens, and particularly, what is the cause of joy.

I still have not figured it out, but here are some thoughts thus far.

1. Happiness flows out of right worship.

The distinction is not so much between the so-called joy and the so-called happiness, but the real difference lies in the object of my worship. Whom am I worshiping?

So often, the source of my joy is also the cause of my fears and worries. What I regard to be the source of joy becomes an idol in my life, whether it is my goals, my space, my schedule, an orderly house, my children's health, their education, their happiness, my family's approval of me, my husband's happiness, his affection — whatever it is. When the pedestals of my idols are threatened, when I feel that I may lose them, fear and anxiety are sure to follow.

So when I am discouraged or fearful or worried, when I have no joy, the thing to do is not to force myself to be happy (it doesn't work! I've tried it). What I need to do is to shift the object of my worship. I need to stop looking to my idols for hope and salvation, and fix my eyes on the cross.


2. Happiness is the response of those who are no longer afraid.
(Psalms 27; 31:7; Isaiah 41:14-16; 42:5-13)

Fear is such an obstacle to joy. When I find myself discouraged or anxious, it is helpful to ask myself what is it that I fear, or why am I afraid? Then, I would ask myself, is my Lord bigger than these fears?

The battle is often not a fight against my circumstances, but it is a fight to see the Lord for who he is. My Lord who calmed the sea and quieted the storm, fed the thousands, healed the sick, raised the dead. My Lord who created everything out of nothing, laid down his life, and reign over death and sin and me with mercy and compassion.

This Lord. Does he know? Can he see? Is he bigger than this fear that grips my soul?

Yes. Praise be to God. He is.


3. Happiness follows repentance.
(Psalm 32-33)

Whether it be with my husband or my children, tremendous relief and gratitude follows when they forgive me for the wrongs I have done. Such liberty is found after being bound up in my own little world of guilt, remorse, and self-justifications. Happiness is when I am able to come up to the surface and breathe again, knowing that they have forgiven me, that they still love me and want me.

This is all the more true with God. He always forgives. He always forgets. And his love is unchanging.


4. Happiness comes to those who dwell in the Word.
(Psalm 1; 119; Joshua 1)

The Father has given us the Word. He has given us instructions on how we may receive grace. If we do not place ourselves in the way of grace, it must be because we don't want grace.

Meditate on the Word day and night. Live there. Let that world become our reality. Let that world define how we perceive this world.

The point is this: I saw more clearly than ever, that the first great and primary business to which I ought to attend every day was, to have my soul happy in the Lord. The first thing to be concerned about was not, how much I might serve the Lord, how I might glorify the Lord; but how I might get my soul into a happy state, and how my inner man might be nourished. For I might seek to set the truth before the unconverted, I might seek to benefit believers, I might seek to relieve the distressed, I might in other ways seek to behave myself as it becomes a child of God in this world; and yet, not being happy in the Lord, and not being nourished and strengthened in my inner man day by day, all this might not be attended to in a right spirit

Autobiography of George Mueller, compiled by Fred Bergen, (London: J. Nisbet Co., 1906), 152-154.

5. Happiness is gift—for which we fight.

Joy is a fruit of the Spirit. The work is ours—to water, to pull out the weeds, to guard our hearts, but it is the Lord who makes the garden grow. We cannot attain happiness on our own, yet we must strive after it with our entire being.

In order to receive joy, we must keep ourselves in the way of joy. Like many promises in Scripture, we must seek ye first, and it shall be given. Work out your salvation with fear and trembling, for it is God who works in you. Pursue wisdom, for the Lord gives wisdom.

Sometimes, joy comes. Sometimes, it doesn't. So while it is night, we weep, we mourn, we sing in the dark. For the nights, too, come from God.

We sit, and we wait. For joy comes in the morning. We wait in meditation and repentance, with prayer and worship. Thankfully, faithfulness is not measured by fruitfulness.

We remain in the way of joy. So when the Savior passes us by, we would recognize him. We would be ready to receive him.

Here is the link to a follow-up post, Sorrowful, yet Always Rejoicing.

An obligatory picture of my happiest baby. His joy is contagious.

Photo credit: Vivian Wu! Thank you for a happy day in your garden. =)

The prayer of a wise fool

I am weary, O God;
I am weary, O God,
and worn out.

When I read Proverbs 30 for the first time, I could hardly believe that the words were just — there, in the holy scripture, staring me in the face. I mean, how did he know? Agur, a stranger with a strange name gave words to the prayer my soul so desperately needed to pray.

Surely I am too stupid to be a man.
I have not the understanding of a man.
I have not learned wisdom,
nor have I knowledge of the Holy One.

It was strangely liberating to confess my stupidity. Though my version is so much less poetic. It usually goes something like this: "Dumb! Dumb! Dumb! Why am I so dumb?" Sometimes, the most truthful thing we can pray is simply, I don't know, Lord, I just don't know.

Who knew? The Word of God is so vast and so complete that it even has a chapter on "How to Pray on Days When You Feel Stupid and Tired: For Dummies." While the Psalms teach us how to weep over our iniquities and meaningless suffering, Agur gives us words for grey skies and a weary heart.

Here at the end of the magnum opus of Hebraic proverbs, Agur had nothing but a heavy sigh. He understood just how far short he measured from what was required of him. The chasm between life before God and life in the world can sometimes be overwhelming. The Bible is not a checklist of all the things we need to do in order to be saved. Rather, it is a mirror for us to see ourselves, in order that we may know how much we are in need of a Savior. So, Agur prayed — tired and empty.

But he doesn't stay there.

Who has ascended to heaven and come down?
Who has gathered the wind in his fists?
Who has wrapped up the waters in a garment?
Who has established all the ends of the earth?
What is his name?

Agur beckoned his soul to remember the creation, the greatness of his God. Suddenly, the frame of his vision was blown up. Agur's focus shifted — from the narrowness of his introspection to the vastness of nature, from his own limitations to Yahweh's limitless power.

Who is able to hold the hurricane captive in the palm of his hand? Yahweh. Who can contain the oceans in the fold of his garment? Yahweh. He speaks and the mountains obey. The height of the heaven is nothing to him.

Great is the Lord and most worthy of praise.

And then Agur asked,

what is the name of his son?

As Hanan, my two-year-old, would say, "Jesus!"

Wait, what?

Um... Isn't Proverbs in the Old Testament? Jesus wasn't born yet.
Who, then, was this son of Yahweh that Agur spoke of?

The relationship between father and son is the backbone of the book of Proverbs. Chapters 1 through 9 are instructions told in the voice of a father to his son. They are the foundation, the context, the setting of the entire book. The son is the recipient of the father's discipline and reproof, the one listening to his father's voice.

Yahweh is a father.  "The Lord reproves him whom he loves, as a father the son in whom he delights" (Prov 3:12). Therefore, whoever listens to Yahweh's voice and follows his way is a child of God.

Who, then, is the son of Yahweh? Who is his daughter?

You are, O weary soul.

"Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest."
(Matthew 11:28)

Here are my take-away points from Agur on "How to Pray on Days When You Feel Stupid and Tired: For Dummies."

1. Remember Yahweh
     a. Speak to him
     b. Beckon your soul to remember his power and his strength
2. Remember the nature of your relationship with this great and awesome God.

He is your father. He loves you and he delights in you.
And for our weary days, this is enough for us to live on.

Praying for Christ

I am indebted to my parents for teaching me to pray as a child. When I was five or six, I was given the all important responsibility to pray for the health and wellness of our chicken. I prayed for angels to guard the chicken coops and keep them safe from snakes and biawak at night. My dad was a pastor in the remote regions of Malaysia. But I digress.

Prayer, to me, was like a checklist. Or, at worst, a wishlist. Sicknesses, check. Friendships, check. Exams, check check check check. Finances, check. Unsaved friends and relatives, check. Safety, check. The possibility of future romance, giggle giggle check. Of course, I say more than just "check" in my prayers. But the idea is that I asked for "God's will to be done" without really knowing what I was asking for. I assumed God's will was mysterious and unknowable.

The big boys came down with the stomach flu last week. Hanan first, then Emeth. My little balls of energy and unceasing chatterboxes were uncharacteristically quiet. During the day, they took turns spilling fluids of all kinds. During the night, they woke up every hour, crying, and feverish with hurting tummies.

My default prayer would be for the pain to go away, for healing, and soon. But, is this all I can pray for? Even children of non-Christians eventually recover from the stomach flu. How then do my prayers affect my family? What difference do my prayers make? What is the point in praying? When they are better, should I give thanks for the healing as the work of God or just accept it as the natural course of things?

What am I to pray for?

Our life of prayer (or lack of) reveals the desire of our hearts. The prayers we voice before God and before one another are statements of what we think we need, what we care most about, what we love most.

If my prayers are only about my external circumstances and if I seek God merely for his blessing and protection, my regard for God is as a genie in a lamp. My wishes are his commands. I am the master and God is the slave.

Let me emphasize here that there is absolutely nothing wrong with praying for our circumstances. But praying merely for God's blessings is not enough. We find wonderful examples in scripture of how God changes the circumstances of his people. Even so, the needs and sufferings of this world are minor emphases. Miracles are but signposts that point to greater realities.

God separated me unto the Gospel, made me his child, to reveal his Son to me and through me. This is my Father's will, that I may know his Son. And while I learn to behold him, my Father promises that I would become more like him. Therefore, last week, as I was praying for my sick children, I prayed for Christ.

In their pain and discomfort, I prayed that my children would learn to turn to the Lord for help and courage. I prayed for grateful, trusting, cheerful hearts. I prayed that we, their parents, would be the willing hands and feet of Christ. I prayed that we would grow in kindness, patience, and compassion for one another. I prayed that in our (teeny-tiny-relatively-minor) suffering, we would have a greater longing for Christ and to be with him forever. I prayed that our sickness would not be wasted, but that it would help us remember Christ.

*David Powlison helped me tremendously while I was thinking through this subject, "Modeling Grace through Prayer Requests."

In remembrance of me

Even before the first bite of the forbidden fruit, there was ingratitude. Because we were ungrateful, we wanted to be God rather than obey God. Because we were ungrateful, we believed in the serpent's lies rather than God's instruction.

For although they knew God, they did not honor him as God or give thanks to him, but they became futile in their thinking, and their foolish hearts were darkened. (Romans 1:21)

Ingratitude is the root of the first sin.
Ingratitude is, in fact, the root of all sin.

My ungrateful heart seeks after things apart from God. He is not enough for me.
My ungrateful heart disregards God, dismisses his promises. I forget. 

Not giving thanks is no small thing. Gratitude is not a warm fuzzy feeling. It is more than good manners. More than the five-second prayer before meals. It is more than the obligatory thank-you notes I sent after our wedding, and the lip-service I pay at the end of emails.When I teach my children to say their pleases and thank yous, I am not just teaching them to be polite. I am teaching them a disposition towards life -- how to live rightly. I am teaching them how to worship.

While ingratitude is the root of all sin, gratitude is the beginning of worship. Gratitude is the very posture of God's children. Gratitude is the mark of the Christian. Sorrowful, yet always rejoicing. Having nothing, yet possessing everything (2 Cor 6:10). We lament, yet we give praise. We grieve, yet we give thanks.

Gratitude is our response to what God has done. Because he first loved us, we love and fear him. Gratitude is the fountain from which all else flows: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control.

Transition from two kids to to three kids has been full and happy, but not easy. There are days when tiredness and anxiety cloud my eyes like thick black smoke, distorting reality. This is the battlefield of my sanctification. Here, holding crying babies at 4  in the morning, I am learning to fight against my self-love.

Suddenly, my mind sees the significance of the thanksgiving passages in the gospels, Paul's letters, and the Psalms. Jesus made much of the only leper who remembered to say thank you. The Samaritan came back not merely to be polite.  He was a changed man. He turned and worshiped God.

Thanksgiving marks the climax in many of the David's psalms and Paul's letters. These men were not merely paying lip-service. They gave thanks not because it was in-style or because it was the "right" thing to say. No! They were engaged in battles. Whether they were fleeing from their enemies or sitting in prisons, they were warring against their flesh, waiting upon the Lord.

God has not left his children defenseless. He has given us weapons to fight and shields to resist. In bad times, gratitude guards our mouth from complaining and our hearts from losing hope. In good times, gratitude guards us against the first sin -- pride, vanity, and the desire to be God.

So, sing! Rejoice! Proclaim his amazing grace. Declare in the face of despair that Jesus has conquered sin and death.

Thank you Lord for the Gospel. Thank you Lord for upholding all things in your hands. Thank you Lord for my children, my husband. Thank you Lord for you have not left me an orphan. Thank you Lord for you have not left my children orphans. Thank you Lord for giving us to each other. Thank you Lord for giving yourself to us.

It begins by remembering.

Jesus gave his disciples a ritual on the night he was betrayed. It is no coincidence that the early church called it the Eucharist, which means thanksgiving in Greek.  This is my body broken for you. This is my blood that was shed for you. Do this in remembrance of me.

This is the Word of the Lord.
Thanks be to God.

Mess-free finger painting. I wrapped the paint and paper under a sheet of plastic. =)

Love was born

{a story of Khesed's birth}

Falling in love with my husband was not part of the birth plan.

For months, I have been praying that I would love Hans more, and more truly. Six and a half years of marriage taught me just how bound I am to self-love. Praying for divine intervention seemed like a sensible thing to do. I knew God answers prayers. God might even answer this one. Slowly and subtly, perhaps? I expected nothing fancy. But I was wrong.

Hans was the keynote speaker for a conference two weeks before the baby's due date. We had agreed to serve at this event months before we found out we were pregnant. We were really excited though we knew there was a risk that I might go into early labor while he was gone.

Hans was worried, understandably. But I insisted that he must go. I somehow managed to convince myself that I would be fine without him. After all, I've given birth twice. We made arrangements for family and friends to be here in case I do go into labor while he was away. The conference came and gone. And I did not go into labor. For this and so much more, I give thanks.

In the history of Biblical interpretation, many referred to the pain of childbearing as "the woman's curse." However, God himself never said this, not really. God cursed the serpent, and God cursed the ground. But never did he curse Adam and Eve, whom he made in his own image.

Instead, God gave his children pain. It would serve us well to remember that God gives only good gifts to his children. As a consequence of their rebellion, they shall have pain in their fruit bearing and child bearing years.

I had not shed a tear during my first two labors. They were undoubtedly painful, but I did not cry. By the third hour of this third labor, however, my face was wet with weeping. I heard groans unfamiliar to my own ears. Apparently, not all labor pains were created equal.

Pain can be such a cold, lonely thing. I saw myself as I truly was, weak and insufficient. Pain stripped away any delusion that I could manage life alone. I needed my husband. And my God, in his grace, gave him to me, for this hour, until death do us part.

In my delirium, I heard his voice reading Psalms 136, 137, 138, 139. By the waters of Babylon, there I wept, and he pointed me to Zion. I was so very glad I was not alone. As the labor escalated, he pulled me out of despair. His voice instructed me to recite Psalm 8, again and again and again, the way I would instruct the boys at the breakfast table every morning.

I saw my husband, as though for the first time. I saw how he pours himself out for his family and his church. I saw how he serves, how he loves. And there, in the labor and delivery room, God answered my prayer, though his way was neither slow nor subtle. I fell in love, again.

Therefore, I shall give thanks for the pain of childbearing,
for the pain that unveiled my eyes.
In the mess of blood and water,
love met me.

Khesed, Hebrew for Yahweh's covenantal, forever love. 

When to obey

Those who spend time with our family would hear me say this a lot: Obedience means that you obey now. Right away. Immediately.

Not after you think about it. Not in a little bit. Not when you are ready to obey. The only time that is appropriate for obedience is the moment you receive the instruction, not when you decide you want to obey.

Oh how difficult is this lesson! And how deceitful is the heart.

I do the exact thing I am teaching my sons not to do. Seeing my own foolishness in them stirs in me much annoyance -- and much fear -- as I know exactly where this path leads. Been there. At the same time, it also stirs up compassion for their little souls, and the urgency to steer them away.

They must learn to heed my voice, and trust in my love for them. Obeying right away can be the difference between life and death. And yet, I am somehow able to justify that my own sin is not as deadly.

When God instructs, I beg for more time. Or, I demand more time. Or, I simply ignore his commands. What makes it worse is that in my delay I start basking in my self-righteousness and consoling myself with my OK-ness. When the truth is that I am as OK as a four-year-old walking accross a busy intersection, and as safe as a two-year-old opening the door of a burning oven.

Well, at least I am aware that I need to be more consistent in my prayer life, or reading and meditating God's Word. Next year, I will serve and participate more at church. I promise I will be more hospitable or more patient after my pregnancy, or when the kids are older. I will reach out to that person at church when I finish this project. I will be more faithful in my church attendance after this season exams or (activity of your choice). I will put an end to this fling after graduation, it's not like I am going to marry him. I promise I will stop wasting time. This is the last (fill in the blank) I will ever watch. I need more time to think about getting baptized. This is a big decision! This is so hard! I am sure God understands.

Promising to obey is not obeying. Thinking about obeying is not righteousness. If I am not obeying right now, I am not obeying. Like Jonah, my prayers can be so full of conceit and deceit when the only prayer acceptable to God is the prayer of repentance.

I know I am asking my children to do a hard thing. An impossible thing, in fact. Immediate obedience requires death. To deny our own understanding, intuition, curiosity, and desires, and simply trust in the wisdom of our Father.

Thanks be to God that Christ has first demonstrated his obedience to the Father on the cross. The great shepherd laid down his life for his sheep. I can stand before the throne of grace only because I am covered in his blood, clothed in his obedience.

Jonah did not say sorry

We think we know the story. We have all read it in picture books and heard it in Sunday school: Jonah disobeys, Jonah says sorry, Jonah obeys. We need to be like Jonah. The end.

But Jonah did not say sorry, and he did not obey. At least not in the Bible.

Here are four things that are different in the true story:

1. Jonah's request to be thrown into the sea was an act of rebellion, not self-sacrifice.

Admitting he was wrong is very different from being sorry, and repenting. Jonah may have admitted the storm was his fault, but he wasn't sorry. Why didn't he ask God for forgiveness right away? If his intention was simply to save the sailors from the storm, why did he not jump off the ship himself? Why ask the sailors to throw him overboard?

This was not self-sacrifice; this was not obedience. He continued to run, this time pulling the sailors into his scheme. The sailors were not fooled. They were well aware that he was asking them to commit murder (Jonah 1:13-14). 

2. Jonah's prayer in the belly of the fish was self-righteous and self-centered. And he did not say sorry.

Most storybooks summarize the entire chapter two with one sentence: "Jonah prayed and said sorry for running away" or "Jonah prayed and asked God to forgive him."

But he didn't.

Chapter two contains no hint of repentance and no request for forgiveness. Instead, his prayer was about how good his was, comparing himself to the faithful and persecuted servant in Psalm 5 and 12. Quoting scripture in your prayer doesn't make it true. 

3. Jonah did not obey God after the fish vomited.

First, God gave the same command to Jonah a second time (this never happens to another prophet in the Bible). If God has to give the command again, it is not likely that he went straight to Nineveh as most storybooks would have us believe.

Second, Jonah did not proclaim God's message to the people in Nineveh. He might have told part of God's message: "In forty days, Nineveh will be destroyed." But he didn't even mention God's name! There is a distinct pattern in God's messages to those he loves and wants to rescue: Repent and believe. Jonah said none of those things. He didn't want to.

Yet, because God is God — the people repented and believed anyway!

4. Most stories end in Nineveh. But that is not the end!

Chapter four ties all it all together. It must not be skipped. Jonah throws a tantrum. A full-out, four-year-old kind of tantrum (except worse because he wasn't a four-year-old). If Jonah had repented and obeyed like most storybooks claim, why the outburst now?

Here, Jonah hung out his dirty laundry for all to see. We now know exactly why he disobeyed. Jonah ran away not because he was mad at the Assyrians or the Ninevites (Israel's enemies, as many storybooks try to explain). He was mad at God. Jonah was mad at God for being God—for being kind and patient, merciful and compassionate. The very reasons why he was still alive!

God is hero of the story. And we must tell the story, the whole story, and nothing but the story.


Update (April 8, 2015): Jonah continued to stay with me for years, patiently teaching me how to pray. He taught me how to say sorry. I wrote a more recent reflection on Jonah on the Gospel Coalition Blog. 

 

in the way of grace

Hans asked Emeth to close his eyes. In his hand held a sweet surprise. A morsel of chocolate-covered ice-cream. He planned to pop it into Emeth's mouth after his eyes were closed. It may not seem like a big deal, but to our three-year-old, it required a great amount of trust and faith in daddy. These days, "Why?" is a common response to the instructions we give to him. The request was simple: obey daddy and trust that daddy has only what is good for you in mind.

God asks his children to pray. Too often, however, our hearts rebel again this exercise and ask "Why?" What difference does it make? God is sovereign, so why does it matter whether we pray or not?

Prayer is not a shopping list; it is not a to-do list. It is not merely meditation, or a means of unloading our fears and worries. It is not even "just talking to God."

In the language of Jonathan Edwards, when we pray, we are placing ourselves "in the way of grace." I think of the centurion who asked Jesus to heal his servant, or the woman who touched Jesus' cloak, or the Canaanite woman who threw herself at Christ's feet for the sake of her daughter. They each placed themselves in Jesus' path, and their hope in his mercy.

Compare to the many other things we can be doing, praying can seem so -- unproductive -- because it is (on our part, anyway). It is as unfruitful as when the sons of Israel circled around Jericho again, and again, and again.

Prayer is a picture of how grace is to be received -- us on our knees doing "nothing." It is us living out our dependence on God, a realization that we can do nothing apart from him, and a proclamation that he has done everything for us. Praying is hard because it requires sacrifice, yet it yields no measurable result. Surrender with little honor. Hard work with no glory, especially having been asked to pray in the closet.

Prayer is a kind of death lived out,
a daily dying to self.

This way of grace, however, is also how we get to participate in God's work, and take part in God's joy. We get to. Like the four friends who believed. They made a hole in the roof and lowered their sick friend at Jesus' feet. They got to be a part of Jesus' miracle. They got to be a part of the story.

Close your eyes, darling,
and trust daddy.

"I will be praying for you..."

I am beginning to think that I need to have a "Hans' sermons" label as I am noticing a trend...

OK. Done.

Matthew 9:35-10:15
Scene One.
Jesus had compassion upon the crowds, seeing that they are like sheep without a shepherd -- harassed and helpless. He instructed the disciples to pray that the Lord will send laborers into the harvest.

Scene Two.
He called his twelve disciples and gave them authority to cast out demons, and heal every disease and affliction.

Scene Three.
He sent them out.

Conclusion.
The disciples are the laborers.

Note to self #1:
The next time I say "I will be praying for you,"
there is the possibility that I would be the answer to my own prayer.

Note to self #2:
Do not use "I am praying for you" lightly and without commitment.

Note to self #3:
Before even telling people this, I need to ask myself how I can serve them in their situation.

p/s His sermon had an entirely different emphasis. He only merely mentioned this in the passing.

Are you praying about ketchup stains too?

Did you know that it is possible to begin a conversation with a digression? Because that is what I am about to do.

When I was younger, I told a fellow PK (pastor's kid) friend three things I would never do:
1. I would never go to seminary
2. I would never go into ministry as a profession
3. I would never marry pastor

I have learned since to not make statements that begin with "I would never." They are dangerous.

Technically, ministry is not my "profession," but having invested ourselves in years of theological education, I can't promise it will never be in our future. Besides, mommy-hood is quite the ministry. My mom used to call the four of us her sheep.

And technically, I am not married to a "pastor," but I am married to a preacher. And I love being married to this preacher. For one thing, he gives great illustrations.

End of digression.

In my previous post, I recycled Hans' ketchup stain illustration. Originally, he used it to explain the scenario in Matthew 9:1-8. Seeing the faith of his friends, Jesus healed the paralyzed man -- by forgiving his sins.

What's that? The guy can't um... move? In Jesus' eyes, apparently, that was secondary. Jesus' main concern was the sickness of his heart. He declares, “Take heart, my son; your sins are forgiven” (Matt 9:2). In the following narrative, while "sitting with tax collectors and sinners," Jesus identified himself as the physician to those who were sick.

Too often, my prayers must sound pretty silly. They go something like this: "Dear Lord, please remove the ketchup stain from my hospital gown, and please remove the mustard stain from so and so."

Yes, Jesus was able to cure the man of his paralysis, and he did. But the concerns of this body and this life are like ketchup stains. Temporary. Superficial. To God, the sin of the heart is our true death, incurable except by his mercy and forgiveness.

Years ago, when I was teaching inner-city youth, delinquent girls in the juvenile justice facilities and schools for pregnant teens, I was feeling pretty useless toward the end of the year. They were dead and dying before my eyes, and I was teaching them futile things like "your need to love yourself," "feel good about the way you look," "please, don't get into abusive relationships." Ketchup stains!

Lord, teach us to pray.